


The Well-Trodden Road to Nationals

by half_sleeping, jetsam



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball, Tennis no Oujisama | Prince of Tennis
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-09
Updated: 2013-07-29
Packaged: 2017-11-20 17:15:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/587805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/half_sleeping/pseuds/half_sleeping, https://archiveofourown.org/users/jetsam/pseuds/jetsam
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The inevitable crossovers. Assorted ficlets, fics-in-becoming, and the occasional random sentence.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Momoi beamed angelically at Aomine and Kagami as they came into the seminar room. Kuroko was already sitting there, though no one noticed this until he cleared his throat. “I’ve prepared refreshments,” she said, taking up her clipboard. “It’s so nice when we get together like this.”

“This isn’t refreshments,” said Aomine. “This is your project work.” He peered at it. “You call this an emergency? Really? We could be playing basketball, you know.”

“Do I complain when I have to take care of you guys?” said Momoi, with dignity. “Do I complain when I have to do it so you don’t have the doctor visits on your records? Do I complain when you all stink or I have to sit on you so you don’t go out and strain yourselves at practice?”

“You’re complaining right now,” pointed out Aomine, but Kuroko was already steeling himself for the line of tiny cups.

“What’s this?” said Kagami, bending over them.

“For extra credit in nutrition,” said Momoi, waving to a bespectacled man with _three_ clipboards. “See, these are sports drinks to improve your performance, and they’re refreshing, too!”

"What's this?" said Kagami, poking at a bubbling blue one, which looked like it was about to develop sentience. “Aozu improved formula?”

"It's good for you," said Momoi. They all, even Kuroko, turned flat states of disbelief on her.

"It's full of things that are good for you," amended Momoi, which was slightly easier to believe.

"Has this one melted out the bottom of the cup?" said Aomine, lifting from a row marked 'Akazu- improved formula'. The jagged edges curled up, white against the translucent plastic.

Momoi paled a little at the sight of it. "I thought we'd fixed that," she said, mournfully, and poured out three fresh portions instead. "There, try it now, and quickly."

"Momoi-san," said Kuroko. "Where- _did_ you get the idea for this-?"

"Momoi Jiru," said Momoi, turning the most melting of all her smiles upon him. "Inui-sensei- over there, supervising- he gave me the idea. They’re so, so good for you.”

Kagami and Aomine exchanged looks that read: _we should make a run for it._

_Won't work. Kuroko will never keep up._

_We leave him._

_Then he'll never forgive us. And we can't run forever._

_Damn._

They looked up. That creepy professor was looking over; his glasses flashed at them as he adjusted them.

_"_ Tetsu-kun," cooed Momoi. "Say ah."


	2. Chapter 2

Kaidou was walking out after his appointment with Aida-san- good trainer, who knew his stuff, even if he didn’t know his tennis. He’d looked Kaidou up and down and pinpointed the old injuries, the developing problems, and accurately divined most of Kaidou’s usual regime; he was not used to anyone other than Inui-sempai providing that degree of detail, Sempai’s clairvoyance was the product of much familiarity and no small amount of his total lack of concern for personal privacy.

He’d consider the Aida gym as a place, anyway. It was near his home, and well-equipped, in a good neighbourhood. Fifteen kilometres would take him to the gym quite nicely, and then another fifteen on the way back, a good alternate-days workout. It seemed to be a family affair; Kaidou appreciated that. Aida-san had spoken fondly of his daughter and expressed wishes she might go into the family business; he could see her now, talking to a bespectacled boy hard at it in the gym.

He was tall, noted Kaidou, who was wired for such estimations now, courtesy of data training. He was wiping his face with a towel as he went at it, and saying, “It’s for stamina, Riko-”

“Yes, but not all the time,” Aida-san’s daughter replied, arms folded and with that same focused stare, the same narrowing of concentration. “But- hmm, Hyuuga-kun, try alternating your workouts with the treadmill and the cycling machine, and then some light weights for stretching?”

Kaidou went away oddly nostalgic, and quite pleased. He wondered what club the boy was in, and tugged at the weights on his wrist with fondness.


	3. The inviolability of roses, the resistance of violets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Yukimura and Akashi meet.

Not long after Seiichi graduated from the Sorbonne it was discovered, by the people whose business it was to discover these things, that he had a knack for giving memorable speeches. Upon returning to Tokyo he found his inbox swamped by invitations to be the keynote speaker at this assembly or that training camp – mostly tennis-related, of course, but there were offers for him to speak at gardening committee dinners and high school graduation ceremonies and even corporate training days.  
  
“They're paying me rather impressive fees,” he said to Niou Masaharu, over their usual Thursday dinner of beer and yakiniku. “I've yet to figure out why anyone would want to listen to me speak about success and motivation, let alone offer money for it.”  
  
Seiichi hung out with Niou a lot these days. Niou was one of the few people who understood the myriad ways in which Seiichi considered his own life to be a failure and never attempted to make Seiichi feel better about it.  
  
“It's the Yukimura Effect,” said Niou. “Kirihara and I coined it one day when we were bored.”  
  
“The Yukimura Effect,” echoed Seiichi. During his early years of junior high, it had been a source of pride, to know that he – _they_ – were creating a legend, that their stories would be passed down from one school generation to another. Later on, the imperfection of the myth had been a constant reminder of Seiichi's own inadequacy.  
  
These days he thought of Rikkai as something that had happened to someone else almost. He was no longer that boy, that idealistic child; although that Yukimura Seiichi would always be part of him, part of their shared memories.  
  
“You had this habit,” Niou elaborated, “of just _looking_ at us, and in that instant you could have told me to commit seppuku on the spot and I would have done it. All of us would have.”  
  
“Yeah, I knew that.” Seiichi smiled.  
  
“And this,” said Niou, “is precisely why you are a complete dickhead, oh captain my captain.”  
  
“Guilty as charged.” Seiichi kept scrolling through the emails on his Blackberry. “Can you think of anything witty and inspirational to say to a junior high basketball club?”  
  
Niou thought about it. “'When running low on motivation, think about how much you hate your vice-captain and promise to reward yourself tonight by filling his sleeping bag with cane toads.'”  
  
“Everyone told me that was you and I didn't believe them,” said Seiichi in an injured tone. “It was such a stupid prank I thought it beneath your intelligence. I'm utterly disappointed, Niou, I must say.”  
  
“Between you and me, I don't enjoy it very much when you narrow your eyes like that and use the word 'disappointed'. It reminds me of losing at tennis, and losing at tennis _sucks_.” Niou finished his can of Asahi and motioned for the waiter to bring another one over. “Fact is you don't have to say anything. Just stand there looking like a fallen angel and smile like you always do. They'll think you said something meaningful even if you didn't. I've never seen that trick not work for you.”  
  
Seiichi knew what Niou meant, and it was true; that particular act had never failed in its effectiveness. “Even so. I don't want to waste their time giving them the same spiel that their teachers and coaches give them.” There was a time when Seiichi's entire existence had been dominated by the lies of adults. “I'd like to give them something that is – true. That they'll remember even when they've forgotten me.”  
  
“Yukimura,” said Niou patiently. “You think too damn much. Eat your dinner. Drink some alcohol.”  
  
Seiichi obeyed, which really drove home how their friendship had changed over the last decade. They ate, they drank, they were silent together. They talked about the present and not the future or the past. It had taken Seiichi years to become a person who lived in the now and not the _someday_ , not the _if only_. It was a lesson hard learnt, and one Seiichi would never let go of.  
  


#

  
  
The vice-principal of Teikou Middle School talked about his school's basketball club as if he expected the entire world to have heard of it, which was a pity, since Seiichi didn't have the faintest idea. Fortunately it wasn't too hard piecing the story together. Seiichi hadn't encountered the phrase 'third consecutive national championship' this many times in a single conversation since he was in junior high himself.  
  
“They asked very specifically for you,” said the vice-principal. “It's the last training camp they're having together, and Akashi-kun and the third-year regulars will be handing the club over to the second years, so it's a very memorable time for all of them.”  
  
Seiichi recalled retiring from the tennis club in junior high. _Memorable_ was, he supposed, one way to describe it.  
  
“Thank you for the opportunity to speak to your students. I consider it a privilege.”  
  
“I'm sure they'll get a lot out of it,” answered the other man, although there was a quizzical look in his eyes as he studied Seiichi. Seiichi got that a lot. “You know, Yukimura-san, I was wondering why Akashi-kun would request for a literary translator to speak at his final Teikou training camp, but one of the PE teachers tells me that you were quite the sportsman when you were young.”  
  
Seiichi noted the mention of Akashi-kun – obviously a student, and a disproportionately important one at that, probably the club captain – and answered: “I used to play tennis. I was a national junior representative twice, when I was in middle school.”  
  
“How wonderful! You'll be able to give our team members a story that they can relate to. Akashi-kun and Midorima-kun and our regulars are all unusually gifted young men, you know. It's not easy giving them the guidance that they need sometimes.”  
  
A story that they could relate to? Unlikely, Seiichi thought. But there was no point in letting his unpleasant memories cloud the task at hand. He smiled politely and allowed himself to be ushered into the auditorium where a hundred-odd middle school students sat – all dressed in school uniform, not yet in basketball uniform, formal in white blazers and vests and pale blue shirts. Seiichi had been asked to provide both the opening and closing speeches of the weekend training camp.  
  
He'd prepared his talk well in advance – recycled outlines he'd used half a dozen times before, rather – and he was almost on autopilot as he congratulated the boys on their success, then moved on to an anecdote from his own training camp days.  
  
He studied his young audience as he spoke. The club's seating arrangements were, even to Seiichi's unfamiliar eye, obviously and systematically meritocratic. In the column of seats to the left were the youngest players – thin, prepubescent, and eager. At the far right sat a cluster of boys who looked a little older and more athletic; had they been attending an ordinary suburban school, they might have been contenders for a spot as a regular.  
  
It was the central section of seats that stood out, however. Only about half of the chairs were populated, and the students sitting there were without exception as physically impressive as they were – to judge by the blank expressions on their faces – disaffected. The players who were _almost_ good enough. There had been a few of those at Rikkai.  
  
Finally there were the five boys in the front row, so overwhelming in their presence that Seiichi found it hard to direct his attention away from them. Long-legged and dead-eyed, they collectively projected an indifference that was almost palpable in the air.  
  
Seiichi looked at each of them – obviously the team regulars – and knew them, with an instant recognition and the intuition that had never failed him: the tanned player slouched in the aisle seat, unmistakably the ace; the tall boy munching his way through a bag of crackers, odd and lazy; the earringed and fine-featured student that Seiichi, after a moment, recognised from magazine ads.  
  
Then there were the captain and vice-captain – and Seiichi immediately knew which was which – seated next to each other, the vice-captain stiff and formal and quite possibly the only one of the regulars who had anything like fighting spirit in his gaze. Seiichi liked him immediately.  
  
He took a pause to sip water and glanced at the boy who was evidently Akashi, evidently the captain, only to find that Akashi was already staring at him.  
  
Their eyes met. Seiichi placed his plastic cup back on the lectern.  
  
Up till that point Seiichi had been talking easily, lightly, telling stories that he'd told a dozen times over and offering maxims that, although true, were hardly pieces of wisdom that the boys would not have heard before.  
  
The decision to change the focus of his speech was pure impulse at first. Once he'd made the choice, though, it seemed inevitable.  
  
“When I was in junior high,” he began. He put that edge into his voice that he used when speaking to hundreds of tennis players at a time, expecting that every single one of them to a man would look at him, and on cue everyone in the auditorium responded, focused on Seiichi. “When I was in junior high, I lost the National finals.”  
  


#

  
  
He had to put up with the vice-principal and coach and a number of other staff whose roles he didn't quite catch gathering around him at lunchtime to congratulate him on “the most moving words I've heard all year, Yukimura-san, thank you so much.” He accepted the compliments with the grace of frequent practice but also with indifference. It was not for the grown-ups that he'd told his life story today.  
  
He'd finally managed to get a moment alone to eat when he felt the sensation of being watched and looked up to see the boy named Akashi observing him from across the hall. Again their gazes met and held. An invitation was exchanged and a question, both hanging in the air between them.  
  
Seiichi did not move. It was ten years too early for the boy to be expecting Seiichi to come to _him_.  
  
Akashi looked thoughtful, then nodded and rose to his feet. He came over and took an empty spot on the bench opposite Seiichi.  
  
“I was surprised but pleased by your words today, Yukimura-san. I had hoped that you would talk about your junior high experiences, but I was not expecting you to be so forthcoming.”  
  
Up close Akashi was more obviously young, clear-eyed and straight-gazed, although there was in his face the lifelessness that his teammates had earlier emanated. It evoked in Seiichi a mixture of pity and fascination. What had happened to these five children to make them look as if they neither feared nor hoped for anything at all?  
  
He said: “It's usually polite to begin by introducing yourself, Akashi-kun.”  
  
“My name is Seijuurou.”  
  
“You can call me Seiichi. Shall we take a walk? It's rather noisy in here.”  
  
They went out of the sports centre together and strolled at the edge of the soccer fields. The weather was bitingly cold.  
  
Seiichi said: “Your teachers say that you asked for me specifically.”  
  
“I did.” Akashi was about Seiichi's height, tall for his age. There was a decidedness about his manner that immediately had Seiichi on full alert. Give this child an inch and he would never let you have control again.  
  
“Are you going to tell me why you asked for me, or shall I tell you?”  
  
“If you were to tell me, Seiichi-san, it would completely justify my reasoning in inviting you here.”  
  
They reached the far end of the field and stopped, turned around. “You want to ask me what you did wrong.”  
  
Akashi smiled.  
  


#

  
  
Akashi was methodical, almost mechanical, in summarising his players: height, weight, average speed, best position. All of his descriptions were accompanied by exact numerical data. Occasionally the odd personal detail crept in, coloured by genuine if awkward fondness: Shintarou's emotional resilience, Atsushi's inability to handle even the most basic social situations, Daiki's overwhelmingly direct manner of looking at the world.  
  
For someone so preoccupied with the quantifiable, Akashi's sense for the psychology of his teammates was almost hyperaware. He didn't _know_ people, immediately and intuitively like Seiichi did; rather he reasoned his way through motivations, behavioural patterns, body language, and came to painstaking but precise conclusions.  
  
It wasn’t the first time Seiichi had ever been asked for leadership advice, but it was the first he’d ever been asked by someone who, at first sight, already had so many answers. They sat in Akashi's homeroom and Seiichi listened to Akashi's chronological account of his club, his basketball, his time as captain. Akashi was concise but even then the story took an hour. At the end he merely glanced at Seiichi politely, and waited in silence. Outside the windows a wild wind blew noisily.  
  
By this point Seiichi had held the inevitable judgment in his head for several minutes. “You did nothing wrong.”  
  
“Exactly,” said Akashi. “All my decisions were correct, and at no point did I make any mistakes. Nothing has come to pass at any point that I did not anticipate and plan for.”  
  
“And still,” returned Seiichi, “you asked for me.”  
  
Akashi rested his hands on the desk in front of him, revealing a shougi piece in each upturned palm. “I am willing to consider the possibility that there is more to life than merely being correct.”  
  
Akashi was more obnoxious than Seiichi had been at his age, which really was saying something. “There's a great deal more, Seijuurou. Whether any of it is worth experiencing – well, that's another thing altogether. The jury is out on that.”  
  
  


#

  
  
Except for Midorima Shintarou, none of the so-called Generation of Miracles deigned to participate in practice at the training camp. Even the tall bespectacled vice-captain's appearances barely met Seiichi's definition of attending practice. While Midorima took part in warm-ups and basic drills along with everyone else, about twenty minutes into the session he walked off, collected a ball that was lying on the floor at the sidelines, and went to the adjacent court to play on his own.  
  
“It's been like that since the beginning of this year,” said the vice-principal, when he saw Seiichi's raised brows. “Nobody can quite keep up with this year's regulars. On the one hand, I'm very proud of them. On the other hand – it will be quite the relief to see them go.”  
  
“I can imagine.” Seiichi gave a wry smile as he watched Midorima send his basketball sailing upwards, almost to the ceiling, before it accelerated downwards to reach the hoop. It was impressive from a certain point of view, but Seiichi had grown up watching Marui Bunta glide tennis balls along telephone wires – and Marui hadn't been Rikkai's best player by a long shot. “I do think it's very poor for morale for the regulars not to be at practice. Especially when even the captain is absent.”  
  
“I believe Akashi-kun is staying away on purpose.” When Seiichi looked at him in surprise, the vice-principal continued: “Our school has a proud basketball tradition, but if I may say so, for the last three years Teikou has not been Teikou. Rather, it has been the basketball club that boasted the Generation of Miracles. And because of that it has enjoyed great success, but at great cost.”  
  
“You need to find yourselves again,” murmured Seiichi. How had Kirihara felt, inheriting a tennis club with most of its strongest players gone? Seiichi had wondered about that over the years, but had never dared to ask.  
  
“That is exactly the case. Akashi-kun is not unaware of that.”  
  
“If he was aware of the situation then he could perhaps have taken steps to prevent it.” Even as Seiichi said it he felt the hypocrisy of the statement. The day he'd handed the tennis club over to Kirihara had been one of unalloyed relief.  
  
“Perhaps he could have. But perhaps I could have too, or one of the coaches could have. There is no point in blaming the children for problems that adults cannot solve, Yukimura-san.” The vice-principal met Seiichi's eyes and Seiichi saw the quiet confidence there. “Personally, I believe that time will bring change, and change will bring growth. As you said in your speech earlier today, everything that happens to us makes us stronger.”  
  


#

  
  
He wandered out of the auditorium shortly afterward and went to look for Akashi Seiijuurou again. The boy was still sitting in the darkened classroom where Seiichi had left him after lunch, bent over a shougi board.  
  
He touched Akashi's shoulder. “Are you winning?” he asked.  
  
“As always. To be honest I'm rather bored.” Playing for white, Akashi captured one of black's gold generals. “Do you play?”  
  
“My best friends have tried to teach me before.” Yanagi and Sanada had tried a dozen or so times. Sanada was nothing if not persistent.  
  
“Will a six-piece handicap be enough?”  
  
“Very likely not.” Seiichi sat at the desk in front of Akashi's, turning his chair around so that they faced each other. “Worth a try though.”  
  
It took one and a half minutes for Akashi to checkmate Seiichi. He looked at Seiichi with serious, considering eyes. “Would you like me to go through the rules with you again? I can explain some of the basic opening moves.”  
  
Seiichi had a sinking feeling he was about to, whether he wanted it or not, be successfully taught how to play shougi. “My apologies for being a uninteresting opponent.”  
  
“You're not boring. If anything trying to avoid checkmating you is something of a challenge.” Akashi checked his watch. “I take it you'd rather not learn.”  
  
“I would rather not.” Seiichi watched as Akashi meticulously gathered up the wooden pieces and placed each in its row, ready for the next game. “Unless you think shougi is only way anyone can understand you.  
  
That made Akashi pause; his eyes went contemplative. “Perhaps it is. But it is not necessary for me to be understood.”  
  
“But you want to be understood. Let me remind you again,” Seiichi smiled at Akashi, “you _asked_ for me.”  
  


#

  
  
Three games and twenty minutes later, Akashi checked his wristwatch. “Will you come out with me for a little while?”  
  
Seiichi's brain _hurt_. He hadn't anticipated having to think so so hard at a basketball training camp. “Only if there's coffee involved.”  
  
They put on their coats and made their way out of the building and across the school grounds, inhaling the winter air. It was mid-afternoon; the cloud-filled sky had begun to darken.  
  
“Where are we going?” Seiichi asked, as Akashi took him out along the streets, past combinis and street signs and a stream of suburban traffic.  
  
“A bookstore,” said Akashi. “There's a few cafes along the way, but if we don't hurry along first we'll be late.”  
  
He didn't say anything more, just kept setting the pace, compelling Seiichi to keep up. Their breath misted in the air as they walked. Seiichi strongly disliked cold; he would have been tempted to hurry along, move faster, but the rhythm of Akashi's footsteps proceeded without deviation. As if he knew exactly how much Seiichi could take without overexerting himself.  
  
The bookshop was multilevel and brightly lit. They took the escalators up to the third level, where they encountered a sign informing them that they were in the fiction section.  
  
Akashi paused by a cardboard display promoting a selection of literary prize winners. “He's always here at this time of the week. Usually in Crime Fiction.” Akashi directed his gaze at a far corner. “Can you see him?”  
  
“Where?” Seiichi glanced across the rows of shelves, but there didn't appear to be anyone amid the books and stacks.  
  
“By the ladder. Look properly,” said Akashi, and there was a condescending edge to his voice that just managed to annoy Seiichi.  
  
It took another half-minute or so searching, but Seiichi did see the boy finally, half-hidden by a set of intervening shelves, poring over a book.  
  
“A friend of yours?”  
  
“A former teammate of mine. His name is Kuroko Tetsuya.”  
  
Startled, Seiichi looked at the junior high boy again. Kuroko did not look athletic at first or even third gaze.  
  
“Let's leave,” said Akashi.  
  


#

  
  
They found a coffeehouse and Seiichi sipped at his double-shot latte with pathetic levels of gratitude and desperation. Akashi ordered green tea and drank with precise and formal grace, apparently waiting for Seiichi to signal when the conversation could begin.  
  
“Right, I'm human again.” Seiichi pushed his cup and saucer to one side. “Talk.”  
  
“I was the one who discovered Kuroko Tetsuya's gift for basketball.”  
  
Seiichi studied Akashi's face – too calm, too stiff, rather as if something would shatter if Seiichi pushed hard enough in the right spot. “Go on.”  
  
“He is an extraordinary player.”  
  
“Who no longer plays for you. You didn't mention this when telling me the Generation of Miracles story at lunchtime.”  
  
“I wanted you to see him first.”  
  
“He's important to you.”  
  
Akashi took a long time responding to that statement. But when he did he leaned back in his chair, looked at Seiichi directly in the eyes and said, “He was no longer contributing to our victory.”  
  
It all came back like a fucking flashback: being fourteen years old. Hospital sheets, hospital gown, his mind dull from the post-anaesthetic daze. The nurses milling around his bed, darting glances at him with no attempt to disguise the pity in their faces.  
  
He'd heard Sanada's footsteps in the corridor outside even before the vice-captain spoke, _known_ just by hearing the way the other boy walked that they'd lost Kantou. They'd lost and Seiichi had been unable to do anything, would never be able to do anything.  
  
He shut his eyes, willing the moment to pass. When it had, he simply said: “And so he left you, or you made him leave. Do you regret it?”  
  
“I never regret anything. Regret is for the ones who lose.”  
  
“Everyone loses, Seijuurou.”  
  
“Not me.” Akashi said it in the same tone of voice one might have used to say _the sun will rise tomorrow_.  
  
“It's not to your advantage that you've never lost.”  
  
“Was it to your advantage that you started losing?”  
  
Seiichi reminded himself, very calmly, that he was perfectly used to dealing with idiotic teenage boys, and that there was nothing to be gained from stabbing Akashi in the face with the end of a teaspoon. “It was not to my advantage, and it was not to my disadvantage. Victory is a validation of one's own existence. Loss is the same; it reminds us that we're alive.”  
  
“I disagree,” said Akashi. “Victory is the proof of the correctness of the winners.”  
  
“You're _fifteen years old_ ,” was Seiichi's response, and Akashi was visibly annoyed at the sudden, blanket dismissal, but so what? It was true.  
  


#

  
  
He emailed Yanagi Renji that night: _How did you and Sanada use to cope when I was being a stubborn idiot?_  
  
Renji's answer came back in seconds: _I believe it was rare for me to be particularly frustrated by your bad habits. Genichirou, though, used to take it out on his iaido mannequins. I think he may have named one after you at some point. Why do you ask?_  
  
Seiichi allowed himself a wince: _Never mind. I don't think I can take any more brutal honesty than that, thank you very much._  
  
He woke up the next morning and despite himself, wandered back to Teikou Middle School hours before he was due to give his closing remarks. Rain was falling lightly when he arrived.  
  
The first-string were doing warm-ups in the main auditorium. Akashi stood at the sidelines watching their practice, talking quietly to one of the coaches. When he saw Seiichi he nodded in greeting.  
  
“I didn't think you'd arrive this soon,” he said, as Seiichi approached.  
  
Seiichi merely cocked his head to the side and smiled. “I thought you might teach me basketball today, as a change from shougi.”  
  
Akashi did look surprised at that. Slightly. He studied Seiichi's arms, his legs, his musculature. “About ninety minutes,” Akashi murmured. “That's about how long you can tolerate sustained cardiovascular exercise. Some of your individual muscle groups, however, might tire out sooner than that.” He inclined his head in invitation. “Let's get started, Seiichi-san.”  
  


#

  
  
Shooting was easy – at least, relatively. It took about ten minutes to get the hang of a layup. Ball handling was harder. Akashi moved around the court with a deliberate but easy perfection, demonstrating technique that Seiichi was sure was completely flawless, and then looking expectantly at Seiichi, expecting him to replicate it.  
  
About the third time Seiichi lost the ball he managed to get annoyed enough to actually try seriously. Time sort of flew past after that, and it wasn't until an hour later that he felt the beginnings of that ache in his muscles that warned him he'd be regretting it for the next few days if he didn't slow down. Even then he would have kept going, but Akashi narrowed his eyes at Seiichi and said, “We stop here.”  
  
Seiichi frowned. “I could probably continue a little longer.”  
  
Akashi moved suddenly, slightly and Seiichi's legs buckled beneath him and he found himself on the hardwood floor, staring up at Akashi.  
  
Akashi said: “If you can no longer keep your balance even while doing a basic dribble, you're not going to get much more out of practicing further today.”  
  
He held out his hand and helped Seiichi up.  
  
“That was quite rude of you,” Seiichi complained.  
  
“You were not bad just now.”  
  
Seiichi raised a brow. “I must say I don't really get anything out of compliments like that.”  
  
“You were like me,” said Akashi. “You were like Daiki. And then--”  
  
“And then life happened.” He gave Akashi a warning look. This child had no right to make commentary on the last nine years of his life. Seiichi had _lived_ them. “You're not immune from the vagaries of existence either, Seijuurou-kun, whatever you may think.”  
  
“I won't pretend that there's something good about experiencing loss just to be polite to you, Seiichi-san.”  
  
“Did I at any point state that there was anything particularly good about losing? All I am saying is that you will lose one day.” A threat, a promise, a factual statement. Seiichi turned to leave.  
  
“Wait.” Akashi held out his hand. “Thank you for coming.”  
  
Their handshake was firm but brief. “Did you get what you wanted when you called me here?” Seiichi asked.  
  
“Partially.”  
  
Seiichi smiled. “Okay, then. My best wishes to you, Seijuurou-kun.”  
  
“And I to you.”  
  


#

  
  
He gave his closing speech in the same vein in which he had given his opening one. He talked about tennis, about Rikkai, about illness, about failure. Everyone in the room paid attention, even the five disaffected young students nicknamed the Generation of Miracles. Even so Seiichi could see that their memories of today would not last long.  
  
That was okay. Words were cheap and only went so far. Time was the true arbiter and dictator of everything.  
  
That evening Seiichi bade Teikou Middle School farewell and went on with his life.


	4. there but for the grace of god go i

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> originally posted [here](http://archiveofourown.org/works/751528/chapters/1533038).

Midorima had known Akashi for a rather long time, ever since they were ten years old. They played basketball together in middle school, but before that, because of the business relations of their families, they were already friendly competitors at chess and shogi, and sometimes played other sports together, when it was just the two of them, of similar age, at large gatherings. Midorima was averse to the horseriding that Akashi so enjoyed, because it made him nauseous, but other sports of choice included squash, tennis, golf, and of course, the occasional game of one-on-one in basketball. Previous to becoming schoolmates and teammates, such contact was seldom – perhaps once every one or two months, but after that, the frequency of such meetings increased.

Of course they both knew they would choose basketball when they both enrolled in Teikou. Akashi’s talents were better applied to a team sport that required the use of strategy, and Midorima appreciated basketball for the ruthless economic efficiency of its points system. Nonetheless, Akashi insisted on playing other sports for leisure from time to time – focusing too overtly on just one game, he felt, dulled the senses and diminished opportunities for learning, leading one to develop a robust tendency towards having tunnel vision. They treated these other sports more seriously than amateurs would, but less seriously than they treated basketball, somewhat like having a detached, yet healthy scientific interest in them. For instance, Midorima would never undo the bandages on his fingers just to get a better grip on a tennis or squash racket, but the theories and the techniques, he learned them well.

Midorima rather enjoyed tennis. It was more confrontational than squash, more cerebral than golf, and less dizzying than horseriding. It was also more accessible than all three. Most of all, it was one of those things that he was almost always better at than Akashi was. God was fair, and He gave what was due. Midorima supposed that even if your eyes were good enough to perceive microscopic shifts in muscle movement, that wouldn’t make up for the shittiest backhand in the world, or the lack of ability to improve quality of said backhand.

He met a certain Atobe through Akashi’s acquaintance, whom he guessed was the son of a family business partner. “Shintarou, I want you to meet Atobe-san,” Akashi introduced, gesturing at the newcomer with the graceful hand of a well-mannered host. “He is an excellent tennis player.”

“If you are interested, we could have a little faceoff,” said Atobe, neither confirming nor denying what Akashi claimed, but judging by the look on his haughty, aristocratic face, he more or less wanted to show off, and was probably thinking that he was doing a bit of charity by allowing Midorima to duel directly with him. Nonetheless, Midorima was too polite to refuse, considering the circumstances.

They played a game in Akashi’s sprawling courtyard. Atobe thrashed him 6-0. It had barely been thirty minutes. Not since when he forgot to bring his lucky item to school on the day of a class relay race in third grade had he been defeated in such humiliating fashion. He would have to check the condition of the Rilakkuma coin purse he was bringing around today; perhaps the zipper was broken. Feeling suitably embarrassed, he moved towards the net to shake his opponent’s hand.

“You have potential,” Atobe said, as if he was doling out valuable life advice to Midorima, “but you should stick with basketball.”

“I plan to,” Midorima replied, gathering himself to his full height and staring down at the top of Atobe’s head, which was approximately twenty centimetres away. It was like staring down at a ruder, smugger Akashi, with fancier hair. Skip the small talk, he thought, he’d like to see how this one fared when faced with a box-and-one defence.

“Shintarou plays for leisure. As do I,” Akashi commented. There could have been a hint of defensiveness in there, but it was also a mix of derision and disappointment and other words beginning with the letter ‘d’, which left Midorima sulking throughout the entire duration of their afternoon tea, although Atobe’s vast knowledge regarding baroque classical musicians provided some respite. It was nice to meet somebody else with such profound understanding of the Well-Tempered Clavier as he. That was, of course, until Akashi started discussing leadership strategies with Atobe, who was, apparently, the sole captain of his school’s 200-strong tennis club.

“I do not have a vice-captain,” Atobe proclaimed, his pinky sticking out at an odd angle from his teacup as he sipped his Earl Grey. “True brilliance need only reside in the mind of one man, where leadership is concerned. To let any assistant rank as something that suggests more authority and seniority seems inappropriate, even incorrect, to me.”

“That is certainly an idea worth exploring,” Akashi mused, looking as if he was seriously contemplating it, and for the second time that day, Midorima felt like a member of the proletariat during a terrible period of class struggle.

Afterwards Midorima was slightly besotted with the state of Japanese middle school tennis for two whole weeks, somewhat against his will. Despite himself, his eyes would be drawn to tennis magazines at the newsstands he chanced upon in convenience stores. He’d never really paid attention to what happened in other sporting arenas, but it appeared that as with basketball, Japanese middle school tennis was also experiencing a sudden surge in precocious teenage talent.

Pro scouts were apparently going crazy with the thought of all that commission, reported one publication, what with schools in the Kantou region already producing several players worthy of competing at the national level, and possibly a few other schools in Kansai as well. One reporter even talked of a particular shot that could exert enough force to “possibly extinguish the dinosaurs, if they still existed”. What dreadful journalism. Ah, there it was, a short interview with Atobe himself on page 20, and he was more annoying-looking in print than he was in the flesh as Midorima remembered him to be. He got one whole splash page in his likeness, no doubt via his own request. He’d struck Midorima as being somebody who was very narcissistic.

“What?” Kise’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second when Midorima asked him if he had ever considered playing tennis. After all, Kise apparently had a track record of quitting clubs every two weeks before he settled on basketball. Then he said, “Well, I tried it once, but it was way too easy –”

“Perhaps you just haven’t been playing the right people. It is foolish to overestimate yourself like that,” Midorima said darkly, leaving Kise to wail, wildly confused, “What are you talking about?”

“I am terrible at anything that isn’t basketball,” Aomine volunteered from his corner of the room.

“No one asked for your opinion,” Midorima snapped.

“If you are still concerned about Atobe-san,” Akashi began, retrieving his blazer from his locker, “we will not be meeting much in the future, I suspect, so neither will you. And besides, it is unlike you to ruminate so much, Shintarou. Are you still thinking about that match?”

“Tennis is just one alternative mechanism through which I condition my body,” Midorima retorted, but Akashi was at least 25% correct, embarrassed as he was to admit to himself. And was that a barefaced admission that Akashi had intended for him to be a socialising aid?

“It must be about the other issue that was raised, then. Fret not, Shintarou, I assure you that you remain an integral part of this team.” Akashi put on his blazer, offering a rare smile, but he sounded almost triumphant in his assertion.


End file.
